


OTPtober

by hawkeish



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders (Dragon Age) Positive, Arachnophobia, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fear, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, October Prompt Challenge, Spiders, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeish/pseuds/hawkeish
Summary: Ficlets & prompt fills about Anders & Hawke, because I’m handers trash. Won’t be daily, but there should be a few!
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke, Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	OTPtober

**Author's Note:**

> cw for spiders & arachnophobia. also some swearing.

The Bone Pit is Hawke’s least favourite place in Kirkwall.

It’s a close race. Unsurprisingly, the Gallows comes in a narrow second. There’s at least pigeons in the Gallows, though, and with pigeons comes a beautiful possibility, one that Anders seems to enjoy almost as much as pillow-talk: the chance that one of the feathery bastards might take a dump right on Knight-Commander Meredith’s head.

Down here, there’s no pigeons. Only endless dark, and endless damp, and endless _spiders_.

Giant, eight-legged dickheads. Screw ogres, or demons, or even whatever in the Maker’s name red lyrium is: spiders are the stuff of Hawke’s most vivid nightmares. Yet strangely, the group haven’t encountered any as they’ve wound deeper and deeper into the mine. Aside from the hollow ring of their footsteps, Anders’ mumbled curses as he walks head-first into yet another low beam, and soft snippets of _Bianca’s Song_ that drift from where Varric’s nonchalantly strolling at the head of the group, the warren of skeletal, torchlit tunnels and shadowed caves have been quiet.

Unnervingly, horribly quiet.

It’s never this quiet.

Trailing behind her friends—she’s forced them to go ahead, like the momentary coward she is—Hawke tries to tell herself it’s a blessing. A slither of luck. Maybe, for once, this’ll be a simple assignment. Wander in, see if rumours of this dragon are true, then get out and back to the Hanged Man before she can say “I’ll have the least terrible ale you serve”—

A noise from behind her, all too familiar, makes her stop in her tracks.

Scurrying. Scuttling. A swarm of legs, and the _click click click_ of fangs and claws against stone.

“Well, shit,” she hears Varric call from up ahead. Isabela unsheathes her daggers and groans a _not again._

So much for luck.

Something cold and heavy slides in Hawke’s gut. Gooseflesh shivers across her exposed skin, though the tunnels are stiflingly warm. Slowly, her heart thudding furiously in her chest, Hawke forces herself to turn around.

Eyes—dozens and dozens of round, beady eyes—gleam at her from the gloom.

For a moment, Hawke can do nothing at all. Her entire body’s frozen, as though she’s already been cocooned in silk, mummified. A small, strangled noise is slithering from somewhere deep inside her, something like the keen of an injured animal.

And then she’s stumbling over herself and the broken ground as she rushes to back away, unable to turn and run. She can hear the scutter as the spiders rush to follow, can see them drop from the cavern ceiling and stream along the walls, and she’s throwing her staff and her hand out, trying to push past the panic and muster up even the smallest flame—

When she collides with something upright and solid and rather feathery, she almost lets out a cry of relief.

Anders.

“I’m here, love,” he calls at the impact, then reaches behind him and gently takes her free hand, knots his fingers in hers. “Take some deep breaths for me, now.”

His touch is warm and soft, always softer than she expects, and with it, her frantic heart calms, just a little.

But not completely. Deep breaths? Hardly. Hawke swears she’s going to be sick. “Anders, they’re—”

“Not going to eat you for lunch,” he interrupts, and there’s that familiar surge of energy as he starts to cast. “Not if I can help it. Your Grey Warden in…well, not-so-shining armour will protect you. Although I’m sure you’d be delicious. Perhaps as a pie…”

“Anders,” she hisses, throwing a wild spirit bolt at the closest creature, “you’re not helping!”

That’s not exactly true, though. Because as he squeezes her hand and laughs—though _how_ he can laugh when they’re being slowly circled by giant fucking _spiders_ is beyond her—she realises that her breathing’s coming easier, now. Her mind’s slightly less of a storm. And her toothy, strained grimace has slackened into something that could almost be a smile, if you squinted.

He’s not wrong. She _would_ make a delicious pie.

Back-to-back, they’re pressed closed against each other as the spiders creep forwards; Anders starts to weave an arcane shield around the two of them. His magic is ethereal, as blue as the sky at high summer, humming faintly. It’s almost as reassuring as the sensation of his hand in hers.

“Better?” he asks.

“Better,” she manages, as bright white flame finally bursts into glorious life along her staff-blade, and then they throw themselves into the fray.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! shoutout to @allisondraste on Tumblr for creating the prompts list, it’s a good ‘un
> 
> (also i love and support all handers ships - I only write as female Hawke as I haven’t played as Garrett yet!)


End file.
